by Kim Jones
“Why do you want me to go? Why now?” The doubt in her voice puts that ache back in my chest. She never thought I would ask, and the only explanation I have to give her is the honest truth.
“Because I don’t want to be away from you anymore.”
—
I’m playing with fire. My decision to let Saylor travel with me is potentially life threatening not only to me, but to her too. She knows I’m a biker, but I don’t think she understands what that actually means. She doesn’t know my job or what it is I do when I’m on the road. I want to be honest with her, but I can’t betray my club and I won’t make her an accomplice to my crimes.
My answer to her question was all the reason she needed. She agreed almost immediately, trusting me with her life without any demand for further knowledge of anything. Moments after I told her, I received a text from Shady notifying me that she’d canceled her flight. She was canceling a trip she’s always wanted to take, just to be with me. As I watch her pack a bag, the thought eats away at me and now I have to ask her why.
“Don’t you want to know where we’re going?”
“It doesn’t matter. Anywhere but here is good enough for me.” I grab her elbow, stopping her from shoving things into her backpack until her gaze reaches my eyes.
“I need more than that, Saylor. Why are you so willing to run away with a piece of shit like me?” She frowns at my words.
“I’ve been in this town my whole life. I have nothing. I know you are confused about why I chose you. I can see the uncertainty in your eyes every time I look at them. All I can tell you is that you inspire me. You make me want to live.” Her eyes drop to her hands a moment before she looks back at me with sorrow and tears in those green pools I’m so obsessed with. “I just want to live.”
I’m trying to decipher her meaning. I’m trying to decode her words, but I come up with nothing. The only reasonable explanation is that she has been hurt. Someone here in this shitty town has hurt her and she just wants to get away. I’m her knight on a steel horse. Her genie in leather. Her dark Prince Fuckin’ Charming. But she needs to know what she’s agreeing to.
“Do you know who I am?” My voice is barely a whisper. I hope she doesn’t ask, because I don’t know if I could tell her. She smiles, and when she speaks, every doubt inside me vanishes.
“You’re Dirk.”
—
I managed to strap Saylor’s backpack to the top of my bag, creating a backrest for her in hopes of making the trip a little more comfortable. Now I’m watching her in my mirror as she stretches her arms out and feels the wind. Riding makes you feel free, and for me, it’s liberating. Judging by the smile on Saylor’s face, she feels the same way.
We have traveled almost a hundred miles and she has yet to bitch or ask to stop. She has been shifting for the past fifteen minutes, probably because her ass is numb, but she doesn’t complain. When I finally stop for fuel, it takes her a moment to get her legs moving again.
“Tell ya what,” she says, smiling up at me as she takes off her helmet. “Let’s not stop. You drive and when you get tired, I’ll drive, but let’s just keep riding.”
I look to see if she is serious. She isn’t. I take her hand and help her from the bike and she sashays away from me, still smiling. I fill up the tank, then stand by the pump waiting on her.
I hear bikes pull up and my eyes search their backs, looking for colors but finding none. They are independents. Just average Joes out for a ride. But when their conversation turns to the “hot piece of ass” walking across the parking lot, they become average Joes with a fucking death wish. They shout to her, but she has eyes only for me. And she is smiling.
“They bothering you?” I ask loud enough for the shitheads to hear. I’ll kill them if they are. Right here in this fucking gas station parking lot. I’ll rip their eyes out and make her a necklace with them if they offend her.
“Nope. They bothering you?” she asks, still smiling as she pops a piece of candy in her mouth. Skittles. I think.
“Yes.” I growl. And they are. I’m waiting for her to tell me to calm down or ignore them, but she just keeps smiling.
“Well, let’s get the hell outta here then.” She grabs her helmet and I watch her put it on, her fingers pulling the strap tight under her chin. Then she stands there and waits for me. I’m still debating whether or not I should leave bodies in the parking lot. But she is ready to ride. I have a feeling there will be a lot more like them, and the thought makes me want to use these pricks as an example of what happens when people fuck with, look at, or even think about Saylor Samson. She knows I’m deliberating, so she waits.
This is why I like her. I’m sure if I did kill them, she would still be waiting for me, right here by my bike. Not theirs. I pull my helmet over my head and straddle my bike, standing it up and waiting for her to follow suit. She does and the feel of her weight on my shoulders as she uses me to balance makes all thoughts of independents with death wishes die. When we pull out, I watch her stick her middle finger in the air at the three men. She can’t see it because it’s hidden behind my full-face helmet, but the corner of my mouth turns up.
Several miles down the road, her hands are on the visor of my helmet. She is trying to lift it. I don’t know why and I make no move to help her. My brain is too busy trying to process her actions. She gives up, then slips her fingers under the bottom and I feel them on my chin. I sit completely still, wondering why I haven’t moved her hand away from my face. Then I feel something small and round between her fingers. She finds my bottom lip and slips it inside. It’s a Skittle. A fucking Skittle. I hold it between my lips as she stares at me in the mirror, keeping her fingers wedged under my helmet and on my chin. When I began to chew, she smiles and gives me a thumbs-up and turns her head to the side, as if asking me if it’s good. My thumb rises just an inch off the handlebar, and she beams.
For the next several miles, she feeds me Skittles. And I like it. And it’s driving me insane. One minute I’m anticipating how I will kill someone and the next I’m being fed Skittles. By a woman. Who is on my bike. Riding with me to perform a hit for the MC.
When the Skittles are gone, she frowns at me and I feel my own frown forming. She won’t touch me anymore. But Saylor doesn’t disappoint. Her hands are no longer touching my mouth, but they are sliding over my arms, under the sleeves of my T-shirt, and across my shoulders.
She begins to massage her fingers into my tight muscles and I feel them relax under her touch. It feels . . . good. Women touch me when I fuck them, but it’s always their long, fake nails that are raking down my back while I pound into them. This is intimate. She is getting nothing in return. She is doing this because she wants to. And she is singing. I can’t hear her and there is no music, only the sound of my pipes, but I see her lips moving and I’m sure the sound is heavenly.
When we hit the Alabama state line, I pull over at the first gas station I see and message Nationals, asking them when Pete’s birthday is ’cause the club doesn’t have it written down. There is no Pete. He has no birthday. This is part of the code.
The coordinates tell me I’m going to Banks, Alabama. I know Banks. It’s a small town of about two hundred people. I know who is in Banks, and the other 199 people there will be better off once he is gone. Saylor sits behind me, patiently waiting for me. When my work is finished, I get off the bike and hold my hand out to help her.
“I was thinking.” So was I, but her thoughts have got to be more interesting than mine. “We should take a picture.” I don’t agree, and a small part of me wonders if she will be upset when I tell her this. But pictures leave a paper trail. Just like the credit card I use to get gas. The difference is this credit card isn’t mine. It’s a fake. A picture with my face in it with Alabama in the background links me too close to the crime scene. And that reminds me why this was a bad idea. If Saylor told anyone where she was going or who she was with, I would have to call this whole thing off. That would piss off the club,
which in turn would piss me off. I slam my fist into the gas pump. I’m so fucking stupid.
“Who did you tell about me?” I ask, my eyes closed.
“Nobody.” Her voice is small, but unafraid.
“Saylor.” My tone is warning—warning her she better not be fucking lying to me. She says nothing and I turn, expecting that look of guilt liars wear. But she is sad. Sad because I don’t believe her? Sad because I’m yelling? I don’t fucking know, but she needs to tell me.
“I don’t have anyone to tell, Dirk. It’s just me.” She is being honest, but I have to be sure.
“You have friends.” She rolls her eyes at my words.
“Friends? Define ‘friends.’ I have two and they are in Europe. Nobody knows where I am, Dirk. Just me and you.” My anger fades a little. Not enough for her to notice, but enough for me to not want to rip this pump out of the ground and throw it through the building.
“Where is your phone?” I demand, and she takes a step toward me. I don’t move, but I should. I’m too mad for her to be close, but fuck she smells good.
“Do you know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t come back when you did?” I search her face, wondering if she wants an answer or if she just wants to remind me what a fuckup I am. She wants neither.
“I would have left. You know I was planning on leaving that day. I had to get outta there, Dirk. I had to leave. Whether it was with you or on my own, I was gone. There are three people in this world that really mean something to me. The two that I really mean something to are in Europe for the summer. It’s not their job to keep tabs on me; they’ve never been able to. It wouldn’t be surprising to them to find me gone. I don’t work, I’m not enrolled in classes right now, and there is nothing about me not being home that will throw up a red flag to anyone. Nobody is gonna miss me, Dirk. If that pathetic reason isn’t enough to convince you why I thought this trip was a good idea, then nothing is. And to answer your question, my phone is at my house, on my dresser. Right where I left it.” She walks past me toward the store, and the need for her to answer the question that is pounding in my head outweighs the need to remain myself—the man who never asks questions.
“What about the third?” I call out to her. “What about the third person who really means something to you?” She turns and her voice carries across the parking lot and flows through my ears like honey.
“I’m looking at him.”
I’m putting my life and Saylor’s on the line, and all I have to go on is her word. If she lied to me, I would be crushed. Her word means more to me than any man’s. I trust her like I trust my brothers. Many of them have the power to put me behind bars for the rest of my life. She has the power to put me in the grave.
I made a decision long ago to trust my brothers. I knew it would be worth the risk because I couldn’t live life without the Sinner’s Creed MC. Today, right now, I make the same decision to trust Saylor, because I can’t live life without her either. And I still don’t know why.
—
The tank is full. I’ve smoked two cigarettes. I’ve done a pretty good job of sorting shit out in my head. It’s been over twenty minutes and Saylor still hasn’t returned. I’m getting worried. And I gotta piss. I scan the store and I don’t see her. When I stop outside the women’s bathroom, I hear her voice. She is whispering, and I make out my name in her hushed words. I see red. She lied. She is on the fucking phone. She is talking to someone about me. I should just leave, but the pain in my chest is knee weakening. And it makes me angry.
So fucking angry that I kick the door in. And then I see her. She is on her knees, in this shitty-ass bathroom, and she is . . . praying. Her face is panicked when she sees mine, not that I blame her.
I have to hold on to the doorjamb to keep from passing out. That’s how relieved and ashamed I feel. I don’t pray, but I respect people who do. I disrespected her. Shame is not something I have felt in a really long time, but it is here now and it’s worse than I remember it.
“I was j-just . . .” She is stuttering. Not in an indignant way, but because she doesn’t know what to say. But I do.
“I’ll wait outside.” I turn to leave and I see the clerk picking up the phone. She is going to call the cops. I could rip out the phone lines, but she has seen my face. I would have to kill her, and I don’t want to. She is an older woman, and I’m sure she hasn’t done anything that warrants death. Her life is more valuable than the one I will take tomorrow, but what about all the people that will suffer because I don’t do my job?
There are no cameras. I knew that before I chose to stop. I’m looking at her, and her face is white. She looks like she is going to pass out.
“Dirk.” I hear Saylor’s pained voice from behind me and I see her on the floor. I forget the clerk and rush to her. She looks fine, other than the twisted look of agony on her face.
“Is something wrong?” the clerk asks, her voice shaky and cautious. She has made her way over to us with the phone still in her hand, but she hasn’t dialed any numbers.
“I have low blood sugar. I almost passed out. That’s why he kicked the door in; I wouldn’t answer him.” She is looking at me when she says this, and I know she is doing it to save my ass. What she doesn’t realize is that it is the clerk’s life she is really saving.
“Oh thank God!” I turn to see the clerk clutching her chest in relief. “I thought he was going to kill you or something!” I ignore her comment and look back at Saylor. “I almost called the cops!” This woman is getting on my fucking nerves, and Saylor notices.
“Will you help me up?” she asks, and she is trying to fight a smile. I haul her from the floor and when she is on her feet, I take her hand in mine. I survey the door, and it is still in one piece. The only damage is to the cheap eye hook that has been ripped from the doorjamb.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll have someone fix it tomorrow,” the woman says, as she eyes the two of us hand in hand. “You are a lucky girl to have a man that cares so much for you.” She walks toward us and I stiffen. I don’t want her to touch me and she looks like the hugging kind. Saylor intercepts and steps in front of me, sticking her free hand out to the lady.
“Thank you for your concern.” Saylor’s smile is genuine and fucking remarkable. She renders the woman speechless and I know the feeling. She turns back to me and winks. I let her hand go, and disappear into the men’s bathroom. Saylor’s winks have power over every part of me, including my growing cock.
—
We are about three hours from Banks, Alabama, and I let Saylor feed me Skittles, compliments of the store clerk, for the first hour. She is singing again and I’m pissed again ’cause I can’t fucking hear her, but I do enjoy her touch. I put my cut in my bag before we left the store. My fuckup with kicking the door down and the fact that we were nearing our destination has me taking precautions earlier than usual.
It wasn’t out of the norm for me to not wear my cut on a run, but I try to wear it as much as possible. There are MCs all over this part of the country, and I need to represent as often as I can. We have charters in forty-seven states including Hawaii and Alaska. We are world-renowned, but the U.S. is our home. I’ve visited a few other countries here and there, but Mexico is the place I frequent more often than the others. I go there for business, but mostly just for pleasure.
I suck another Skittle into my mouth, making sure to touch Saylor’s finger with my tongue. I’ve watched her more than the road and noticed that every time I licked her finger, she put it in her mouth before diving into the bag for another. I don’t know if she knows I notice, but I won’t tell her, because I don’t want her to stop.
The sugary candy is good, but my stomach needs something a little more filling. If I’m hungry, she probably is too. I would have to get better at this shit. Usually, it was only my needs that mattered.
Troy, Alabama, is located about ten miles from Banks. It isn’t a big town, but big enough that we won’t draw any attention. I find an older mo
tel where they accept cash and the rooms have doors that lead outside. I leave Saylor outside by the bike while I book the room in the same name that is listed on the credit card and license in my wallet. When I get back outside, I see Saylor taking a picture of herself with a Polaroid camera. I didn’t even know they still made those things. But she was now holding the picture, fanning it in the air, waiting on the image to become clear. She sees me and smiles.
“I have helmet hair, but I don’t care. I wanted to have a picture to help me remember my first ride.”
“No pictures,” I snap, feeling anger creeping back into my veins. Why in the hell had I not warned her of this? But if I did, what in the hell would I have said? “Do you have any more?”
“No. Just this one.” I grab the picture from her fingers. There is nothing but a brick wall behind her. Her smile in the picture has an instant softening effect on me.
“I can’t let people know where I am. So we can’t leave anything behind that might put me in any of these places. Do you understand?” I ask, hoping like hell she does so I won’t have to explain anything further.
“I do. I promise I won’t take anything with you in it or leave any incriminating evidence behind.” Her words are serious, but her smile is playful.
Our room has two beds. I didn’t know if she wanted to sleep with me, so I made sure she had an option. I have my tank bag, my luggage bag, and her backpack in my hands, and I’m frozen in place at the door—watching her. She touches everything in the room, her eyes closed. She is breathing deep as if to memorize the smell of the room. I inhale and all I smell are stale cigarette smoke and that cleaner they use that has the same scent as the towels. When she opens her eyes, she is looking at me and she smiles, revealing her teeth.
